


da capo al fine

by schoolboys



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schoolboys/pseuds/schoolboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lewis watches adrian's fingers as they move across the keyboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	da capo al fine

**i.**

You are fifteen and you stand in the Rosberg home in Monaco and the carpeted floor is warm and soft under your bare feet. You do not know where to look, so you end up looking at the upright piano that Nico has, sleek and glossy. You stare at it longingly, fingers itching to find out how it would be like to press down on the keys because the piano is a luxury, your father could have never afforded to purchase such an expensive instrument or send you for lessons after paying for your karting activities.

When Nico comes back with your drinks, he notices that your eyes do not leave the piano. So he sets the glasses down on the coffee table, and he lifts the lid of the piano, beckoning you to it. You look down at the keys, mouth dry, and he laughs, pushing you by your shoulders on to the piano bench.

You place your hands on the keyboard, ebony and ivory and cool beneath your fingertips, unsure of what to do. Then Nico knocks against you, getting on the piano bench too and you move aside, giving him space. He tells you to mimic his movements, but while his touch is light and gentle on the keys, all you seem to be able to do is to jab hard at them with no finesse. He makes music, while you are fairly certain that all you are making is an awful noise.

**ii.**

You do not touch a piano after that, not for a long time until you are with Adrian, whiling time away because you have nothing planned for the evening. In the beginning it had just been you and Nico, but Nico had moved on to another series without you and then you meet Adrian when you compete in Formula Three. Or rather, you bump into him rather unceremoniously, and then later you discover that you have more in common than just being mere competitors — he had competed against Nico the year before. And somehow by luck and sheer coincidence, the three of you wind up here, in the same hotel.

Adrian notices the way you look at his fingers, moving gracefully across the keyboard. 'Do you want to try?' he asks, looking up at you. You sit together in a hotel lobby and you should probably not be touching the grand piano like this, but there is hardly anyone around to lecture the both of you so you carry on as if the place is yours.

'I don't play,' you answer hastily.

'Doesn't matter. I could teach you,' he offers, and he moves aside on the piano bench so that there is enough space for you.

You glance at the spot on the bench. 'I can't,' you say.

Then Nico appears, making his way to the grand piano. He sets a stack of papers on top of the piano and leans against it, looking at Adrian, hand on his hip. He says something foreign, but you have been around him long enough to be able to tell that it is in German.

'Thanks,' Adrian replies, but in English. If Nico is surprised his expression does not betray him. 'Shall we play?'

'Me?' Nico switches to English effortlessly and this is one of the things you admire and despise about him — the ability to move between different spheres that you do not have because you only have English and well, a tiny bit of French for school that you do not wish to use yet so that you have something you can keep for yourself, that you can understand slivers of what he says in French to the reporters who ask.

'Lewis can't play.' Adrian shrugs, moving to the left, into the space where he had offered you and he lays out the sheets of paper on the piano. There is a pang in your heart when he does so, like someone has just taken away what had been originally yours.

'I haven't played in years.' Nico does not move from his position.

'You can't forget how to read scores,' Adrian says flatly. 'Come on. It's just Tchaikovsky.'

Nico sighs, relenting. ' _Just_ Tchaikovsky,' he mimics Adrian, and Adrian rolls his eyes, looking at you and shrugging. Nico says something in German that you do not comprehend. An insult? A joke? Adrian does not react to it, merely placing his hands on the keyboard.

There is something graceful about the movements of their hands together, the sort of harmony they have that you have never achieved with anyone and there is something that burns inside you but you have no idea what it is. It is as if Nico had snatched the opportunity away from you but it is ridiculous, is it not? You had never known how to play anyway. But the horrible feeling consumes you, and your stomach lurches.

**iii.**

Adrian's hands are soft against your own, guiding your hands over the keyboard. It is summer and you are in Monaco in Nico's flat and Nico is on the sofa lying on his stomach as he leafs through a magazine, uninterested in what Adrian is doing with you.

There is no one else at home, and after a while, you turn back only to find that Nico has fallen asleep on his magazine.

Adrian's hand is still on yours, but you have long ceased playing the piano. You look at him, eyes searching, and he returns your look, silent.

His hand is still on yours, and you like how it feels. The warmth, the weight. That is all you like about this, really. He is trying to teach you Mozart's first variation of Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars, but the truth is, you cannot be bothered to learn. All you want is to watch him play the piano, to feel his hands on you. So you ask him to demonstrate again and he frowns, but he does so nonetheless.

Nico wakes up with a start. 'What did I miss?' he asks, peering blearily at the both of you.

'Nothing,' Adrian says, waving a hand at Nico. 'Go back to sleep.'

Nico murmurs something in German, and Adrian smiles. You find yourself staring at Adrian, wanting to know what Nico had just said, and Adrian looks at you, amused.

'He said your playing is shit,' Adrian translates, grinning.

'His is no better,' you scoff, and Nico snorts.

**iv.**

It is not the piano but the pianist, you think. When Nico plays you feel nothing watching his fingers, you sit in front of the television watching a televised performance of a Beethoven piano sonata but you do not stir. But when it is Adrian you find yourself inexplicably drawn to him, which is funny because it is hardly that way in the absence of a piano. When he is just-Adrian or Adrian-your-rival you feel a tinge of animosity towards him, but when he is Adrian-the-pianist you want, you want so much that it consumes you and it is terrifying because you have never wanted anything like this before.

And well, you are Lewis Hamilton, you will make sure that you attain whatever you want at any cost. Adrian will not be an exception.

**v.**

Things do not often work out the way they do in your head.

The next year Nico is out of the picture, and on one hand that solves the problem of the distraction (because you are always a trio, and you cannot break that because at the end of the day Adrian is Nico's friend first and then yours, just as you are Nico's friend first and then his) it also presents a problem where your old reasons to meet up are no longer valid.

But the biggest problem is that of the piano, and gone are the days where the both of you would have been willing to settle for making fools out of yourselves with the pianos in hotel lobbies.

Yet fate works in funny ways, and when it takes one thing away from you, another presents itself readily. You keep running into Adrian at restaurants and cafeterias, and you end up sitting at the same table together, talking, eating. Now you are both a little wiser, no longer children in Monaco with Nico watching the both of you with a knowing smirk each time you circled one another, unsure of how to approach. You are on the cusp of adulthood, not quite ready to take the plunge, but his knee knocks against yours under the table, and you smile, pressing your leg against his.

**vi.**

Adrian's fingers move soft down your spine, like he is playing you as if you were a keyboard and you moan, soft and low. The lights are turned down and you are in his hotel room, and your father would worry if you do not return to your room soon but now that you have come so far, there is no way you will turn back without getting what you had set out to achieve.

'Did you like that?' he asks, hand stopping at the small of your back. His fingers press down, strong and firm and you nod, mute. His hand moves lower, down the swell of your arse and you swallow hard when he cups your arse with both his hands, pulling your arsecheeks apart slowly. 'You like this.'

'Adrian,' you say, breathless, because there is nothing else that you can say, really. He squeezes your arsecheeks, kneading softly and your breath hitches in your throat and honestly, you have no idea what you want because you have never really done anything like this with anyone else before. It has always been about Adrian's hands. Nothing more.

He touches you, dragging his fingertips over your skin, slowly, and you are so aroused that you might just come without having anyone touch you directly.

'Do you like me, or do you like this?' he asks, voice soft. His eyes look like they are shining in the dim light. Is he crying? You cannot tell.

'I,' you begin, but really, there is no way for you to answer the question, especially when his hands are still on you.

He smiles, but he looks sad. 'That's what I thought.'


End file.
